


Deshi

by Dach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU - I don't even know, Arse!Ronald Weasley, Dark themes hinted at, Dumbledore is Manipulative, Gen, Harry washes his hands of this, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I seriously didn't think that could happen, It actually turned out decent, Not everyone's Mary-Sue, Oh dear god I've written a Gen fic, Oneshot, Post 5th year, Ron and Hermione Bashing, Sensei - Freeform, Summer of '96, dojo - Freeform, genfic, idk - Freeform, manipulative!Dumbledore, powerful!Harry, sensei student relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8944072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach/pseuds/Dach
Summary: Harry was being chased by Dudley- chased right into a dojo. Inside, awaited a powerful man, strong, and dedicated to the boy wizard. And so Harry disappeared from the public eye; he had found his home, and damn if the wizarding world would take it from him.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~This is the relationship between Harry and his mentor. Probably one of the strangest one-shots you've ever read.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Loosely inspired by the Sensei & Deshi relationship presented in “An Aunt’s Love”, by Emma Lipardi (uploaded on Fanfiction.net).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is has not been beta-ed. Indeed, it's hardly been revised. But that is the result of oneshots written at (literally) 3AM.

Harry tasted the metallic flavour he was all too familiar with; blood. Ignoring his discomfort, he hunched down further, as if trying to make himself purely invisible. He knew by now that such a thing was impossible. Shouting- so cheerful that Harry might have mistaken it for playful had he not known better- echoed from the mouth of the alleyway. Several teens tore by, their silhouettes lit by the sunlight. Harry almost crawled towards it, but he stopped himself, remaining in the dark alleyway; it was the dark that was safe, ironically enough. The light cast surveillance upon him; it was hellfire. Suddenly aware of the fact that a revolting mixture of blood and saliva had filled his mouth, Harry spat it out was if was acid, half-expecting it to burn a hissing crater in the cobblestones. Nothing happened, and a sigh escaped Harry.

Dudley and his gang were long gone by now, Harry realized, and he cautiously stepped out of the alley. The green-eyed teen squinted in the sunlight, then froze as a voice he knew well called: “There he is!”  

The teen was running by the time that “Big D” had finished his sentence, and he barged into one of the many random buildings lining the street. Mats lined the expansive floor, and a man with definitive caucasian and asian features was directing a twenty-something-year-old’s kicks. Several symbols ran up the side of his neck, and his gray hair was tied back haphazardly, falling past his broad shoulders. A single gold earring (which appeared to be imprinted with kanji) swung as the trainer blocked each of his student’s kicks, wordlessly explaining how each could be improved. Harry couldn’t help but admire the student; while not fat in the least, the trainer was hulking, and broadly built. The trainer didn’t speak, but waves of intimidation rolled off of him, demanding respect and pushing down the false superiority effortlessly, as if others’ airs were nothing more than paper dolls.

Watching the scene was maddening; there was no strife, no discord. It was as if Harry’s worries, Sirius’s fall through the veil, the bullies chasing him, had melted through the padded walls. Several shouts sometimes tore from a practitioner, somehow not breaking what seemed to be a spell, and rather, adding a sort of broken rhythm to the scene.

Feeling entranced, Harry stepped a little bit closer, hovering awkwardly by the mats. The sensei’s head snapped up, not towards Harry, but towards the clock, and he had crossed the room in an instant. The sensei rang the cowbell resting by his jacket loudly, causing his students to cease their training at once. As in some odd sort of synchronization, the students turned towards their sensei, bowing once and wordlessly leaving. No words were exchanged until a good majority were out the door, and even then, it didn’t seem as if the spell had been lost.

“Closer,” commanded the sensei. Harry started in shock, and he glanced around nervously, realizing that he was the only other occupant of the dojo now. Anxiously, he edged closer. Feet spread and shoulders squared, the sensei faced Harry. “You have been in war.”

Harry blinked in confusion, knowing that his habitual “Er…” wouldn’t suffice.

“Yes, sir.” Automatically reaching for his wand before realizing that he had foolishly forgotten it, Harry asked. “If I may, how did you know?”

The hulking man studied Harry slowly, his eyes sweeping leisurely over Harry’s near-trembling form. “Your stance is guarded. You eyes are darting. You have already assessed, to the best of your knowledge, my fighting style. You have searched the room for exits. You moved as if wanting for a weapon and you seemed surprised not to find it. You have already evaluated your surroundings, and you hold yourself tense under your old clothes. How has one so young faced so much?”

Harry felt unsure of how answer the sensei, feeling as if any response he gave would be inadequate. And so he remained silent. However, when the sensei shifted, an answer tore from Harry’s mouth.

“Necessity, sir.”

“The same necessity which chased you to this dojo?”

“No, sir.”

Despite knowing that such evaluation shouldn’t bother him in the least, Harry remained tense underneath the hulking man’s judging gaze. And he couldn’t help but to admire the surety with which he held himself. Slowly, the man raised his hand, palm facing Harry. “Punch my hand.”

With the calm dominance emanating from the sensei, the messy-haired teen did as he was told, utterly confused. Even as Harry’s closed fist struck, the bulky man’s hand didn’t waver in the least. The man hummed in thought. “Good. You have understanding of strength, but not how to make use of it.” He drew his hands to his sides. “You have no bad habits. No good ones, either, but I give you those.”  
Brow knitted, Harry had to stop himself from frowning in thought. _What was the man saying?_

“I have become leisurely in my time teaching. I will train you.” announced the sensei, power rolling off his every syllable. A calm suffused Harry, and he nodded in agreement. The sensei’s aura was calming, certainly, but it didn’t impair his judgement.

“You will adress me as Sensei, Deshi.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, Sensei.”

A small smile played across the man’s lips and he bowed. Harry mimicked the gesture as best he could, his heart beating wildly.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sensei was a strange man. Upon Harry’s agreement, he promptly stated that Harry was ‘not of here’. After that, he refused to speak again, merely showing Harry to a small room. It was fairly bare, but Sensei pointed out where he could store his trunk. Upon being asked as to how he knew that Harry had (and frequently used) such a trunk, he pointed out the calluses upon the teen’s right hand. Harry was effectively rendered speechless and, after being presented with a single paper clip, he was told to retrieve his personal articles. Still wondering how Sensei knew that his materials were under lock and key, Harry picked the lock with ease that only a person with years of practice under their belt could do, lugging it through the streets and ignoring the odd looks he got.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was two days later that Dudley arrived. Spotting Harry training with one of the punching bags, he threw open the door, strutting in with a sneer. “Freak!” He said harshly. “Get home now! Mummy said you have to stay there!” Harry froze, unsure but knowing that he wasn’t going to comply, and Sensei walked in.

“What do you want with Deshi, inept boy?” boomed Sensei. Dudley gaped and promptly turned tail, running as if a pack of bears were at his heels.   
“Thank you, Sensei.” Harry said quietly, working harder at his task. Almost, imperceptibly, Sensei nodded.

They weren’t bothered by Harry’s relatives- nor any magical folk- again; it seemed as if Dumbledore had decided that spying order members weren’t necessary for Harry’s wellbeing in the summer of ‘96.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A week later, Harry awoke, shaking in cold sweat and Sirius’s name upon his lips. Sensei was beside him in an instant, helping the trembling teen sit up and holding a glass of icy water to his lips. Mumbling thanks and apologies, Harry accepted the help.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Harry was pushed to what felt like past his limits, but he kept going, reveling in the burn of his limbs. He would awaken each morning, sore, but never feeling better. But he was only human, and after a particularly trying day, he collapsed. Sensei had been upset, not at the fact that it disrupted their lesson, but at the fact that Harry was hurting. He practically forced Harry to remain on relative bedrest, teaching him meditation and history.

Later, when Harry attempted to work on his occlumency, he found that his meditation had strengthened his mental protections.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Not a month later, Harry’s magic decided to make itself known. They had been engaged in harsh combat, both fighting fiercely. For a moment, Harry had been lost, remembering himself back in the ministry atrium, back at the graveyard, back in front of the mirror of erised. When the wizard came back to his senses, he found that Sensei had been thrown across the room by his accidental magic. Even as Harry approached to ensure Sensei’s wellbeing, the hulking man sat up with a smile. Though he was first convinced that Harry was some sort of magical ninja, the wizard managed to explain the wizarding world without hazard. Sensei listened, not doubting, not disbelieving, and Harry took Sensei to Diagon Alley the next day.

There, he had spotted Ron and Hermione, both underneath one of the sun-umbrellas at Florean Fortescue’s Ice-cream Parlour. He had pointed out his friends to Sensei, but before harry could approach and greet them, he overheard their conversation. They spoke of him, but not of of loyalty. They spoke of Dumbledore’s plans to shape him into the perfect light soldier, and Sensei’s hand on his shoulder was the only thing which kept him grounded, kept him from lashing out at the two teens.

Harry later found that it was Dobby who had prevented the ministry from raining wrath upon Harry for the breaking of the Statute of Secrecy and telling Sensei of magic; the house-elf had intercepted the magical signal and destroyed it. Upon the realization, the house-elf had been asked to ward the facility against ne'er do wells and those wishing to interfere, and Dobby did so with Sensei’s full approval; he didn’t like the wizards meddling with his Deshi.

When Sensei learned of Voldemort, the walls of the dojo shook with rage, and he vowed that he would protect his Deshi.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Harry didn’t return to Hogwarts, instead studying magic with Sensei by night. Hedwig continued to unfailingly deliver the Daily Prophet. Somehow, word got out that Harry hadn’t returned to Hogwarts. Bystanders could only speculate as to why the news hadn’t gotten out any sooner, but Harry knew and confided in Sensei; Dumbledore’s influence with Fudge had run out, and the story had been printed. A nation-wide search was conducted, and both found it to be highly amusing; the Head Boy could have gone missing and nothing so near as drastic would take place. No, this was an inconvenience due entirely to Harry’s status of fame and money. Oh, how the wizarding world was corrupt. Once, a group of badly disguised wizards had rushed past the dojo, ‘Missing: Harry Potter’ flyers trailing behind them like Hans’s trail of breadcrumbs. Sensei and his Deshi had watched, amused from the windows.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Eventually, Harry’s studies were done. Sensei, while not having made any progress in the core subjects due to his lack of magic, had become a sheer genius with ancient runes. The two were tired of London, and they sold the building, securing an inherited providence of Harry’s in eastern europe. With Dobby’s help, they began to re-establish the dojo from afar, until eventually, all that was needed was for their own travel. With an anonymous phone-call, a two-person portkey was arranged; they couldn’t help that it was arranged in the heart of The Ministry. And so, they prepared and entered ‘62442’ into the telephone, stating loudly and clearly their purpose.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

December 9th, 1996, Harry Potter walked into the ministry. His hair- normally only tamed by an unforgivable- lay flat, and he wore sharp, bottle-green japanese buisness-wear. His bangs were swept back, not quite displaying his scar, rather, noting it. With one arm slung protectively around him, a man in a dark-gray suit and subdued tie walked at Harry’s side, his jacket’s cut anonymous but displaying his powerful build.

Several cries rang throughout the atrium as they recognized their savior, but Harry did not move to acknowledge them. Power rolling off of the duo’s every movement, they continued striding purposely to the back wall, where a tweedy looking wizard was regulating the portkeys. The flames flared green to their left, and a harried Dumbledore hurtled out of the floo.

“Harry, my boy-”

“I am not your boy, Dumbledore,” said Harry, in an accusatory fashion. His voice was strong- not quite cold- and powerfully neutral.

“Mr. Potter, then. Have you any idea what you’ve done, dear boy?! The wizarding world was in an uproar due entirely to-”  
Harry stopped, turning sharply and cutting the old man off with a sharp: “Dumbledore”.

“The wizarding world is uproarious due to the fact that Voldemort-” the atrium collectively flinched, but Harry didn’t seem to take notice. “-has been proven to be alive, just as I’ve warned. Indeed, just since I’ve warned from my first year. But of course, the wizarding world is fickle, honoring me for something I didn’t to one moment, and shunning me the next for some genetic trait. And you only encouraged both, after illegally placing me as ward to muggles you knew very well despise magic. After paying my friends to spy upon me, I was your perfect weapon, Dumbledore; meek enough for you to manipulate and powerful enough for the public to rally around. But I realized that, and, old man, you have lost your weapon. Those lies of a blood ward- the building I’ve been staying in is badly warded, yet none have tried to attack me once, minus the cousin you forced me to be raised beside. I am under your thumb no longer, old man. I am just Harry now, not a child shouldered with the wreckage of the world. I am leaving, and it is not within your rights to stop me.”

No sooner than had Harry turned than a spell was shot at him. It had, foolishly enough, come from Fudge’s wand. However, Harry held up his hand in uninterest, the spell fizzling out against it after months of practice. The minister gaped and the man beside Harry was suddenly armed, one sleeve yanked up to reveal an armband of knives, while the other arm was already armed with a wicked looking bronze knife. “Do not,” The man’s voice was powerful, and commanded respect from even Dumbledore. “Try to harm Deshi, unless you wish bodily harm upon yourself.”

Harry allowed his eyes to sweep the crowd, and then, slowly and deliberately, he snapped his fingers. A ripple seemed to emanate from him “They will not, Sensei. I have placed a magical shield.”

Satisfied, the man’s knife was re-holstered, and they finished their journey to the portkey. Harry tossed the man who was in charge a galleon, and the poor wizard squeaked. Harry turned to face the atrium. “You could have had a savior, were you foolish enough to believe that a single teen could take on what some believe to be the greatest dark lord to have risen thus. But the wizarding world is fickle.” Harry extended the silver comb- the portkey- towards his sensei. “I wash my hands of this matter.”

With a crack, they were gone, the remnants of chaos in their wake.


End file.
